In The Spaces Of The Dark
by wolfquasar
Summary: High school is over and Stiles is both excited and apprehensive about the last summer the pack will spend together before college. Because something's missing from the equation. Someone, in fact. And it doesn't help that the nightmares he hasn't had in years have come back, just as a new terror threatens to engulf Beacon Hills.
1. Nightmares

Stiles is floating.

He doesn't know how, but his body hovers above the snow. The flakes are falling fast; the wind whips around everywhere, a million tiny vortices trying to get under his skin and flay him alive. He is moving, somehow, the way the branches rush over him, even as he looks away, frightened they might reach down and claw his eyes out.

It's then that he remembers running from the creature. The hot putrid breath behind him, the snarling, the slobbering, the yellow eyes bright. Then the thud, the trip, the tumble, and the blinding pain as he slams into the ground. He tries to scream but there's no breath. He waits to die.

And then, he's floating, and the warm blood trickling down his shoulder and his arm reassures him he's still very much alive and getting queasy from the loss of blood and whatever's moving him so fast isn't helping either.

Then he sees him —the one who's been carrying him— just a profile, in silhouette, as the moon briefly peeks out from the clouds.

"Who... who are you..."

And then, the awful shriek of the creature in front of them, and they're falling, and now he has breath enough to scream...

"Stiles."

"_Stiles!_"

Mrs Stilinski shook Stiles gently by his shoulders. The scream was the same every time he had the dream, and after several times she and her husband had perfected the way to wake him without inducing too much of a panic.

Stiles's eyes shot open and he stared at his mother, shivering.

"Mama!"

Claudia Stilinski flicked on the night light and stroked her seven year-old son's arm.

"It's okay, Stilesey, it was just a dream."

"Claudia?" John Stilinski called sleepily down the passage. "Is he okay?"

"Fine, honey," she said. "I've got this one."

Stiles's rapid breathing slowed somewhat has he heard his mother's gentle alto. He fumbled around and found Mr Eddy, his teddy bear, and hugged him tight.

"Was it the same dream, sweetie?"

Stiles frowned and nodded his little head rapidly. His dark mop was damp with sweat and a spitcurl dangled on his forehead, so that he looked like a tiny Superman.

"But you got away from the monster," she said evenly. She knew the tableau all too well.

"Yes, Mama. He carried me."

"The man?"

The little boy nodded again. The man with the shining eyes had appeared once or twice in the past, but he hadn't featured this much before.

"Were you scared? Of him?"

"No. He was trying to keep me from... from the... monster...but I couldn't see his face. I wish I could have seen his face. I wanted to thank him, but then I woke up."

Claudia smiled gently and kissed her son on the cheek.

"Do you want to come sleep in the big bed with me and Daddy?"

The boy considered it for a while, then shook his head, smiling. "That's okay, Mama. But stay here until I fall asleep."

"Of course I will, sweetheart. And I'll tell Mr Eddie to be on watch the whole night."

"And T-Rex," Stiles chipped in. "His teeth glow in the dark. I'm sure they're poisonous to monsters."

Claudia chuckled gently and mussed her son's soft brown hair.

"Sing grandma's song," Stiles said, drawing himself into a little ball and yawning.

Claudia nodded, and sang the old song her own mother taught her:

_All around my hat_

_I will wear the green willow_

_And all around my hat_

_For a twelve month and a day_

_And if anybody should ask me_

_The reason why I'm wearing it_

_It's all for my true love_

_Who's far, far away_

He was out by the second stanza. She stayed a long while that night, watching the moonlight wash through the louvres of the window and paint her son with stripes of dark blue and silver. She sighed and absent-mindedly clutched her left breast, worrying her fingers around the small scar where they'd removed the lump six _months_ ago.

It had all been caught in time, the doctors had said; there was no need for a mastectomy, and the course of chemo and radiotherapy she'd had was merely a precaution.

They'd pronounced her cured already two months ago.

But Stiles had the first nightmare the very day after she went home from the hospital.

And the nightmares weren't stopping.


	2. A Widening Gyre

Summer.

Glorious summer.

Senior year had raced by all too quickly, and the early start of summer was especially poignant now. In just a few weeks he and Scott and Allison and Lydia —and, somewhere in Connecticut, even Jackson, the Abercrombie Werewolf himself— would all be that oxymoron, young adult.

In the fall they'd all be going their separate ways. Stanford had accepted Stiles for pre-med (he was always a shoe-in, tailing Lydia's perfect GPA by a nanometre); Scott and Allison would be traveling through Europe on a gap year. Isaac was going to to try his hand at being surf instructor in Hawaii while Lydia was off to Columbia to study chemical engineering. Jackson was so totally going to follow Daddy's footsteps to Harvard Law School.

And Stiles would be starting university and still be a virgin, no surprise there.

Screw it, Stiles muttered under his breath as he kicked off the sheets. He'd been worrying the future around in his mind for at least half an hour, unable to start reveling in the day. It was a bright, beautiful Saturday morning in Beacon Hills. There was absolutely nothing to do except vegetate and he was so totally going to do that by the Martins' pool.

He hadn't seen the gang in nearly a week, throwing himself into his vacation job, and it was going to be awesome shooting the breeze and drinking too many cocktails with them. Especially Lydia; he couldn't wait to jabber on about how she'd changed his reading life by introducing him to E. M. Forster of all things. He'd read _A Room With A View_ in a day after she handed the book to him saying,

"Go on," she had said, "I really think you need a break from torturing yourself with French existentialism."

"I've got vintage Judge Dredd if that would make you feel better."

"Try it. I think some elegant British prose will hit the spot much better than a gore-soaked graphic novel."

Three years of well, werewolves had cemented a slow but growing friendship, and despite the odd growls from the Once-Evil-Non-Gay-Alpha-Twin, Stiles could now actually engage in platonic conversation with his muse without collapsing in a heap of flailing limbs and adrenaline every time his eyes met hers.

He should be soaking up the summer, he thought, but, fuck, Derek. Derek, tragic can't-get-a-fucking-break Hale. Why was he suddenly thinking about him? He'd been thinking about him a lot lately, ever since he had refused to join Scott's pack despite a year of multiple pleadings and concerns about his safety.

Stiles blew out his cheeks as he shuffled to the bathroom. He hadn't seen Old Sourwolf in nearly a year, ever since he moved to Sacramento. Sure, Derek had pretty much faded out of things after Peter had eventually joined the werewolf choir invisible for the second and hopefully last time. Yet the parting seemed final now: except for Stiles, everyone was leaving California.

The world was darker and older now; no summer could erase that. Stiles had almost grown used to the creeping sense of despair that regularly squirmed around in his skull, ever since he and Scott and Allison had made the sacrifice to save their parents. The adventures with Deucalion and the Darach had been just a prelude to the shitstorm that followed, Peter's sordid reign of terror being just one example. Even as Allison's wolfsbane arrow had pierced the Evil Uncle Hale's heart —just as the fucker was about to slit Scott's throat— they'd all known the next army of evil was already coasting towards Beacon Hills.

_And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,  
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?_

Stiles shuddered as he realized he'd been mouthing the words of Yeats's poem over and over in the shower. He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing under the water, but The Second Coming was a fitting description of the last few years of his life. He was eighteen now and should be getting drunk and waking up next to girls he didn't know, not baring his soul to a universe that seemed fit to rain horror down on everyone he cared about.

No wonder he'd traded Star Wars for Sartre.

He didn't trust the recent lull in supernatural events at all, he thought while shaving. Certainly, it had been pleasant writing his final exams and graduating without the intrusion of faeries or harpies or demons, but he doubted he'd be starting at Stanford without at least one more salsa with the supernatural. As if to punctuate this, a little drop of blood careered down his cheek where he had nicked himself, mixing with the foam and landing in the sink as a sickly pink splotch.

"Stop it, Stilinski, you're awesome," he said to his reflection after he'd brushed his teeth. "You're going to do nothing today but bake your brains in the sun until they leak out."

He paced back to his bedroom, smiling to himself as he heard his father fussing about with breakfast downstairs. The Sheriff had become a mother hen lately, putting his arms around his son at every opportunity and organizing so much Stilinksi Father-Son Time they could be in their own small-town, middle-class version of _The Pursuit of Happyness_.

A pall of nervousness had descended upon Stiles's dad ever since his own introduction to the supernatural at the hands of the Darach. But it was much worse now. The Sheriff had accepted with considerable aplomb that his son ran with werewolves, that his son's once-awkward, asthmatic, shy best friend was now the alpha of a pack Stiles was an honorary member of. But Stiles's looming departure for college was almost more than he could bear. He'd told Stiles he really didn't have to hang around the whole summer, but the boy had insisted on taking a part-time job as an orderly at the hospital. Stiles had said it was the first step to padding his tentative medical resume, but John knew the boy was hanging around to make his old man feel safe.

That was Stiles, always putting himself before others. But that was his wont, just like Claudia had been.

"Not too bad, bro," Stiles said as he looked at himself again, this time flexing himself before the full-length mirror in his cupboard. He was filling out nicely after Isaac had taken pity on him and dragged him off to gym, convincing him that Slightly Physically Stronger Stiles would at least partly compensate his ever-present risk of slipping and braining himself on a blunt object. Just last week he had managed to bench half his weight without screaming like a girl.

He patted his abs —he'd always had abs, but lately they were also due to muscle than just skinny physiognomy– and looked slightly quizzically at his biceps which, yes, were not just little matchsticks anymore. Stilinski, Men's Health cover model? He burst out laughing. But it was a start. He'd never be a Derek Hale, but...

For God's sake, Derek. Why Derek again? And why the hell was he now thinking about Derek on a fitness magazine cover, wearing nothing but Abercrombie boxers, and that that was kind of awesome?

Before he could muse about this, his phone bleeped mercifully.

Scott:

hey bud where r u? we're all here at the pool

Stiles:

Oh crap. Already? I'll be there soon. Just need to grab some breakfast with the dad.

Scott:

can u pick up some more burgers 4 the barbecue

Stiles:

Let me guess. The twins have already raided the kitchen, eaten all the meat and Lydia is pissed as hell.

Scott:

ya. feeling on the spot here bud allison still mad at me 4 forgetting our anvrsry & lydia all pissy need bro backup

Stiles:

Will be there as soon as I can. What about Isaac and Danny?

Scott:

allisons bitching to isaac & aidan trying 2 calm down lydia & danny is making out with ethan

Stiles:

Well at least somebody's getting some action.

Scott:

ur not helping

Stiles:

You're the Alpha, assert yourself.

Scott:

u know im not a dick :)

Stiles:

I know that, numbnuts. Now fuck off so I can actually get there!

Scott:

lol thx bro i owe u

Stiles shook his head, smiling. Scott was an awesome Alpha, but one would think the leader of a pack — at true Alpha at that— would have stopped using txtspk by now. Come to think of it, Derek always texted in full sentences (when he did text, which was admittedly rare. Stiles was quite taken aback when he discovered the ex-Alpha knew how to use the Internet and carried an iPhone.) Dammit, Derek Hale again.

He pulled on some boardshorts and his favourite Star Wars T-shirt and raced down the stairs.

"Morning, son," said the Sheriff, patting his shoulder.

"Waffles _and_ flapjacks, Dad?"

"I know how much you love them."

"You love them too. It's weekend, though, I'll forgive the carb and fat explosion."

"You really are a diet Nazi son, but I appreciate it. My cholesterol is the lowest it's been in three years.

Stiles snorted and poured an egregious amount of syrup on his bacon and waffles. He tucked in greedily.

"These are good, Dad. Like probably your best ever."

The Sheriff took a long sip of orange juice. "I can never quite do it the way your mother did, but it's close."

Stiles bit his lip. He could see the look in his father's eyes, the little bright twinge that always flashed across them whenever he spoke of his wife. Stiles felt something icy splash across the inside of his chest and started drumming his foot furiously against the counter as he tried not to think of leaving for Stanford. Even though he'd been afforded a full fucking scholarship to an institution with a five, yes_ five,_ percent acceptance rate, the thought of leaving his father alone in Beacon Hills made him feel terribly guilty. The world was creeping in between father and son, between Stiles and his boyhood, and it seemed to be whirling faster and faster, uncoiling with an infernal acceleration.

As if he sensed his son's unease, his father changed the subject. "So is this a sort of pack meeting you're going to?"

"God, I hope not. No. Just chilling out at Lydia's."

"Great. You deserve it. I really would have wanted you to take a rest, Stiles, but I think it's wonderful you're assisting at the hospital, even if they're paying you next to nothing."

"Thanks, Dad. I enjoy it. Scott's mom is teaching me a lot."

"I never thought you'd be in for a career that includes a significant amount of blood."

"I kind of have developed a career in dealing with blood on a daily basis," Stiles shot back with a grin. "And it's usually black, wolfsbane-poisoned werewolf blood."

"Touché, son."

The Sheriff chuckled, remembering how Stiles could get dizzy during an episode of E.R..

Stiles was about to elaborate on other types of gore he'd been exposed to, like demon ectoplasm or faerie slime (really smelly) but he thought better of it, as he saw the sun streaming in through the kitchen window, signaling a day that spoke of a world where there were no such things as monsters.

"You going to be okay with me at the conference next week?" the Sheriff said suddenly, putting on his concerned face. In his mind, Stiles was always going to be the small wide-eyed boy whom he wanted to put on his shoulders.

"Of course, Dad," said Stiles, and glugged down the dregs of his coffee. "Plus I have the whole..."

"Pack," said the Sheriff. Even after wo years, the concept was strange to him. He consoled himself with the fact that Scott was, really, Stiles's brother, and John Stilinski couldn't help feeling a bit of vicarious paternal pride as he thought of what a fine young man his son's best friend was turning out to be, werewolf or not. He thought about the Hale boy, who seemed never to have been afforded any happiness. When Stiles had told him the whole story, that rainy afternoon after everyone had recovered from the whole incident with the Darach, he understood instantly why Derek had gone and bitten Boyd and Erica, God rest their souls, and Isaac.

It wasn't really for power. The kid —he really was still just a kid— had wanted _family_.

He hoped he was doing okay in Sacramento, in whatever way he was eking out an existence with his younger sister. At least he still had her, he hoped, and silently thanked God that, even with Claudia gone, Stiles had a home and people who loved him.

"What's wrong, Dad?" said Stiles, who had gotten up and started packing away the plates in the dishwasher.

"Nothing. You better get going, my boy. I bet your friends are waiting for you."

Stiles nodded and hugged his father goodbye. He kind of wished he could have sat through the morning unsullied and watch the game on TV later with his pop, but then he walked out into the Northern Californian sunshine and could only think of pool loungers and Mai Tais and, yes, Lydia in a bikini. She wasn't quite the crush he'd invested all of his teenage testosterone in any more, but still, there was nothing wrong with a bit of window-shopping now and then.

The sun beat down on Stiles's back as he walked towards his Jeep, and he smiled.

When he arrived at Lydia's he wasn't aware of his nails digging into his palms, as if something in his body was not quite convinced that this was going to be a perfect summer day.


End file.
